How things look through an Oregonian's eyes

November 29, 2006

My wife can’t understand why I listen to right-wing blowhards like Lars Larson, Michael Savage, Sean Hannity, Victoria Taft, John Gibson, and Bill O’Reilly. I tell her that driving along with Lars on the radio gives me the cardiovascular equivalent of a two-mile jog, my heart rate and blood pressure rise so much.

More seriously, I love it when I catch one of these pontificators in an especially blatant conservative hypocrisy. Which is common. That’s one reason why the Republicans did so poorly in the mid-term elections: voters were fed up with all the say one thing and do another crap.

Recently I turned to KXL and heard Lars Larson speaking with a woman who must have been with the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife (can’t remember her name, if I ever heard it).

Previously he’d grilled the woman about why fewer Oregonians are getting hunting licenses. His theory was that it’s because there aren’t enough wild animals to hunt. But Lars’ guest explained that every state is seeing a decline in hunting licenses since the population is getting older and more people are choosing to simply enjoy nature rather than killing nature.

Undeterred by facts, Lars pressed on. He said that Oregon is being overrun with cougars. If they weren’t killing so many deer, hunters would be more successful. And isn’t it mankind’s prerogative to kill those deer instead of a cougar?

That’s a highly dubious assumption—nature knows best when it comes to managing prey-predator populations—but the ODFW person more or less agreed with him and proudly brought up the Oregon Cougar Plan. My view of this travesty is that it’s a slap in the face to voters and based on fictions not facts.

Regardless, it’s now in effect. We taxpayers are paying good money to hire government employees to kill cougars who might, just might, perhaps cause a problem one day in parts of the state where inaccurate estimates of the cougar population imply that the herd of big cats needs to be thinned.

Lars asked the woman why even more cougars aren’t being killed. She explained that not once, but twice, the citizens of Oregon voted to ban the hunting of cougars with dogs. And it’s damn difficult to kill a cougar without the aid of a canine.

Now, you’d think that this would be the end of Lars’ ranting. On this particular subject, at least. Don’t conservatives believe in the people having the final say about social policies? Aren’t conservatives against judges and government bureaucrats standing in the way of what the public wants?

Seemingly you’d think so. But not if you heard Lars arguing that the citizens of Oregon can’t be trusted when it comes to managing cougars. He brushed aside those two statewide votes where a majority said, “No hunting cougars with dogs.” He said that the ODFW should control the cougar population on its own since Oregonians are clueless about wildlife management.

Well, somehow I suspect that Lars would have been singing a different tune if voters had approved the parental notification measure concerning abortion that was on the November ballot. Would he be arguing that professionals from Planned Parenthood should decide how abortions are handled in the state, rather than voters?

Conservatives are for local control until they feel like locals aren’t controlling things to their right-wing liking. Then they’re all for centralized government taking over, as in the horrific Terri Schiavo case.

Their hypocrisy is obvious. To me and, thankfully, to the 53% of Americans who voted Democratic in the last election. Conservatives no longer have consistent values. The only thing they value is staying in power.

Now that this is largely gone—and hopefully the 2008 presidential election will be the icing on the Republican power-loss cake—the vacuity of conservative “thinking” (loosely put) is marvelously clear.

A Saudi Arabia man living in Colorado has been sentenced 28 years to life in prison after he was convicted of sexually assaulting an Indonesian housekeeper and using her as a virtual sex slave.

A news video shows him saying, “The state has criminalized these basic Muslim behaviors.” Indeed, the Colorado attorney general had to fly to Saudi Arabia to explain to authorities there why the man, Homaidan Al-Turki, committed a crime.

In Saudi Arabia - a moderate Muslim nation, correct? - women are forbidden to drive and must be covered head to toe in public. They may not travel abroad without written permission from a male relative. Women who are caught breaking these laws face arrest and the prospect of lashes or worse. Yes, lashes.

Under Saudi law, you need four witnesses to prove a rape case. So authorities there couldn’t understand how Al-Turki could be convicted merely on the testimony of the Indonesian housekeeper.

Borat’s Kazakhstan is real. It’s just called “Saudi Arabia.” Borat says about his (fictionalized) Kazakhstan:

My wife she is dead…she die in the field…she die from work, an accident, but is not important, I have a new wife.

In U.S. and A. they treat horses like we in Kazakhstan treat our women. They feed them two times a day. They have them sleep on straw in a small box. And for entertainment, they make them jump over fences while being whipped.

November 25, 2006

There’s nothing wrong with Christmas except almost everything. Frantically buying presents. Obsessively decorating the house. Feverishly socializing. Leave all of that stuff out and you’re left with something good.

It just isn’t Christmas as we in the United States know it. But it’s surely a lot closer to what the man we’re supposedly honoring, Jesus, would have wanted.

I found this image at Buy Nothing Christmas ’06, along with other posters that inspired my increasingly minimalist Christmas soul. Last night Laurel said, “Let’s not get each other any presents this year.” “Sounds good to me,” I told her.

I’ve already stopped giving gifts to anybody but my wife and daughter. And, to me. Giving starts with our own self, I concluded long ago (probably as soon as I knew what a gift was). Who knows what I need or want better than me?

Laurel generally agrees. So leading up to Christmas we buy some gifts for ourselves, hand them to the other person, and then try to forget about what we’re going to open on December 25.

This is one way to unplug the Christmas machine, which is the title of a book that I bought many years ago but haven’t fully taken to heart (disturbingly, you can pay $33 for an Unplugging Christmas kit; that seems overly commercial, given the goal of overcoming Christmas commercialism).

It’s time. Laurel and I no longer see any point in marching along with the Christmas bandwagon. Financial gain is the main driver of the insane holiday parade that starts before Halloween and ends after the New Year. Yesterday was “Black Friday,” the day stores supposedly start to make money for the year and go in the black.

Well, they’ll just have to get along without our usual excessive Christmas purchasing. If we really need or want something, we’ll get it for ourselves. If not, we won’t. There’s no reason for me to keep on replacing perfectly good shirts that I’ve hardly worn just because I’ve gotten some new ones for Christmas.

A fellow Tai Chi student and his wife have set up the Elizabeth Bowers Zambia Education Fund in honor of their daughter, who died in a bicycle accident while working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Zambia. The fund provides scholarships for young village women who otherwise wouldn’t receive an education.

You can’t believe how much happier I’ll be this year giving a donation to the fund rather than wandering around the Salem Center Mall the week before Christamas, searching aimlessly for a present for Laurel, who is horribly difficult to shop for because (1) she’s picky when it comes to clothes and personal items and (2) she likes shopping for herself and already has anything she really needs, just because I know she’ll have gotten me some “extra” gifts that I didn’t buy for myself and I’ll feel like a Scrooge if I don’t make an attempt to buy her something, even though there’s a really high probability that she’ll be returning it the week after Christmas.

If you need any more convincing to turn off your own Christmas machine—all those habits and traditions that don’t really mean much to you, but you keep on doing them anyway for no reason other than habit and tradition—listen to Joel Kroeker’s "Buy Nothing at All" song that I found on the Buy Nothing Christmas site.Download jklo.mp3

November 23, 2006

What a Thanksgiving bummer! It looks like this beautiful creature is going extinct. Yes, this could be the last time a much beloved Now & Zen Unturkey graces our vegetarian table.

I had no problem buying this ungobbler a few days ago at LifeSource Natural Foods. But this disturbing page greeted me when I tried to access the Now & Zen web site. And the buzz over at Veggie Boards isn’t encouraging: Now & Zen is no more. Same message here.

Nor is there any cyberspace sign of Green Options, the company that reportedly bought the makers of the Unturkey.

I don’t believe it. In a world where there’s a jillion brands of cereal, how can we be left with only Tofurkey as a vegetarian alternative? The Unturkey kicks Tofurkey’s vegan butt. It’s chewier and has a remarkable crispy skin.

Tomorrow I’m heading to LifeSource to buy another Unturkey or two, if they still have any. I don’t want to have to go, well, cold turkey after we’ve finished eating what’s in the oven.

If there is a vegetarian god, hear my prayer: “Bring back the Unturkey. Quick! Definitely before next Thanksgiving. Put into some vegan entrepreneur’s mind the thought, Now & Zen’s products are too good to be lost. Yours in meatless devotion, Brian.”

November 21, 2006

It's clear. Support for Measure 37, the attempt to trash Oregon’s pioneering land use laws, has crested. Now, after having experienced two years of nightmarish Measure 37 claims, Oregonians are awakening to a better way of dealing with property rights inequities.

It also helps explain why property rights fanatic David Hunnicutt is sounding less fanatical these days. I suspect Hunnicutt sees the writing on the wall—“Measure 37 is going to be amended”—and recognizes that stonewalling on changes won’t cut it.

David Hunnicutt of Oregonians in Action, the group that wrote Measure 37, said he backs any plan to simplify the construction of modest Measure 37 projects. In exchange, he said, his group would consider supporting limits on development -- but not if one house is the limit.

Well, fine. How about a couple of houses? Laurel and I probably could support that. But not 82 houses on 217 acres that currently is zoned for exclusive farm use and is in an area with limited groundwater where five acres per well is the standard. That’s what our Spring Lake Estates neighborhood is facing.

The Measure 37 claimant, Leroy Laack, who wants to build all those houses on mostly two to three acre lots, is showing the ugly face of what was billed to voters as property rights “fairness.” Believe me, it is anything but.

Laurel is leading our area’s fight against the proposed subdivision. Thousands of dollars have been donated. Dozens of people have gotten involved with the Keep Our Water Safe Committee (KOWSCOM, which sounds like it should be part of the Defense Department).

She and I, along with other concerned neighbors, are putting in many hours fighting a development that wouldn’t be allowed under current land use laws. But Measure 37 rolls back the clock for a few privileged landowners. Regulations that protect the rights of many are waived in favor of a few.

That’s not fair. And this is why Measure 37 has to be changed. Today we got an email from a local resident who lives adjacent to the proposed subdivision. His well already runs almost dry in the summer months due to a declining static water level, so he’s put in a 1500 gallon holding tank. He said:

If there is more stress on the water table with all these new homes, I fear I will run out of water. My well driller says that there is no guarantee that more water will be found if we drilled deeper. Please let me know what I could do to help in your efforts.

John Gray, developer of the Salishan and Sunriver resorts, is seeking the middle ground that Measure 37 passed over. Way to go, John. More power to you. And to the Deschutes County Commissioners who have denied a Measure 37 claim to dig a mine, extract steam energy and build homes within the Newberry National Volcanic Monument in Central Oregon.

Seems reasonable, doesn’t it? But not to the selfish Measure 37 claimants who say they won’t give up on their efforts to turn a national monument into their private environmental disaster.

Tell Governor Kulongoski that you support his efforts to amend Measure 37 to strike a better balance between the rights of those who want to develop their property, and those who already live in the area. Your supposed right to a 82-lot subdivision shouldn’t take away my right to have water come out of the tap.

November 19, 2006

Bet you think this will be the world’s shortest blog post, given that title. Hah! Dream on, overly proud Portlanders. This Salem resident is about to show you what you’re missing if you don’t live in Oregon’s capital.

[Blog fact check: our address has “Salem” in it, but my wife and I live five miles outside the city limits. Nonetheless, we’re Salemites through and through, as evidenced by our bland dispositions.]

What you're missing is: plenty of vacant free downtown parking spaces. Now, admittedly this photo was taken around noon today, a rainy Sunday, but this is a typical Salem street scene: no people.

That’s because there’s not much interesting to do or see downtown. But the plus side is that if for some crazy reason you actually find yourself in central Salem you’ll have no problem parking, since you’ll pretty much have the place to yourself.

I took this photo outside of one of downtown’s two Starbucks. Surprisingly, I captured a distant fellow human. Also surprisingly, on this block there were quite a few cars. They probably belonged to patrons of Starbucks, just about the only places where I found signs of life on my two block walking tour.

Outside the other Starbucks I snapped an image of the excitement that surrounds the Salem Center mall on a Sunday. If you don’t see signs of such, you’re seeing correctly. But if you get turned on by easy-to-find free unlimited on-street parking, downtown Salem is orgasmic.

Also if you like going out of business sales. The Mervyn’s store, part of Salem Center, was having an “everything goes” sale today. Maybe that’s where these shoppers had just come from. They looked happy, which made me think they were from out of town.

I say this because Salem either attracts depressed people or, once they get here, the town fosters a chronic condition of seeming moribundity. Sort of like Salem’s Lot, but without the thrills.

Last night we hosted the monthly meeting of our Salon discussion group (most of the members live in Salem, so sitting in a living room and talking for three hours is wild compared to what we generally experience socially).

Irmgard, had recently come back from two months in Europe. She told us something amazing: in Vienna and other cities people are eating and drinking wine in restaurants at midnight! Not surprisingly, Irmgard said that she was having trouble adjusting to “life” (such as it is) back in Salem.

I suspect they enjoy comparing the “lives” (such as they are) of us Salemites with their current Portland experience, in the same way as a recently-released prisoner drives past the penitentiary and thinks to himself, “Man, it sure feels good to be out of there.”

At one point my wife commented that LifeSource Natural Foods is one of the good things in Salem. Lynda couldn’t resist blurting out that close by their Sellwood condo there are three, count ‘em, three, major natural food stores to choose from.

I put fingers in my ears and chanted “can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you” (that’s what I do when I risk hearing news of the wonderful world outside, to avoid becoming even more depressed), but her words still came through, damn it.

Recently Laurel and I drove up to Lynda and Mark’s for a respite from Salem. They took us to a Greek restaurant in Sellwood. It was a real culture shock. As soon as we walked in the door we heard a strange unfamiliar sound.

Loud laughter. And animated conversation. I guess this must be what Vienna is like. People congregating and having a good time. Having driven up from sleepy Salem, for us it was plain weird.

It didn’t take long for us to begin to enjoy ourselves, though. I felt like the shelter dog from the Salem Humane Society that Laurel took to this year’s Dog Parade. Wide-eyed, tail wagging, happy to be out of the confines of the kennel.

Well, back at home now we try to look on the bright side of Salem. Which is, um…give me a moment to think…oh, yeah, I remember: lots of free downtown parking spaces!

November 17, 2006

Downtown Salem was gridlocked last Wednesday evening. Not exactly like New York City, but it was a pretty good imitation of gridlock for generally sleepy Salem. I’d parked on the right side of Court Street at 4:30 to go to my Tai Chi class.

When I went outside at 6:15 I saw that traffic was barely moving. I went into Starbucks for my traditional post Tai Chi grande nonfat vanilla latte. The barista told me she’d heard there was an accident on Front Street. Plus, the windstorm had reportedly disabled some traffic lights.

I told her, “Fortunately I’m heading south on Commercial. Shouldn’t be a problem, since I don’t need to get on Front Street.” After a few sips of caffeine, I was feeling even better about the situation.

Getting into my car, I saw that the left two lanes on Court were moving fine. These led onto one-way Commercial. My only problem was going to be backing out of the diagonal parking on the right side of Court, where the traffic was moving glacially as people tried to get onto the nearly gridlocked Front Street.

I put my car into reverse. Backup lights shining the universal automotive message, “Here I come; let me out,” I reversed a few feet to more clearly indicate how much I wanted to leave my parking space. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that I was hemmed in.

“Patience, Brian,” I told myself. “Eventually that lane of traffic will move a little and the person behind the hemming-in car will let you back out.”

Nope. They didn’t. They inched forward as soon as the car in front of them did. Well, at least now I saw different sheet metal when I looked behind me. I turned on Air America and listened to some chortling about the election results.

Enjoyable, but I still preferred to be moving while rejoicing with the chortlers. I backed up a few more inches to advertise my intention more clearly. Still no Good Samaritan.

This was starting to get irritating. I was going to immediately get in one of the left lanes, so I wouldn’t even be taking up any space in the barely moving Front Street lane. I toyed with the idea of putting the car in park and walking out to have a chat with the driver of one of the cars hemming me in.

“Hey, man, got a car length to spare? I’m an out of work disabled veteran trying to get to church.” Something like that.

Thankfully, a lady finally came along who stopped and beckoned to me to back out. I gave her my finest wave of appreciation in return. And was speeding along Commercial Street a few moments later.

What gives with us Americans these days? Okay, it was stormy and people were trying to get home after a long work day. Yet this wasn’t enough stress to justify acting like a jerk. Letting someone on a busy street back out of a parking space doesn’t require being a Mother Teresa.

It just means being willing to get home a few seconds later. We need to slow down and not try to move so fast, just like Simon and Garfunkel told us to.

I’d continue this rant by pointing out in more detail the ridiculousness of those who leave their Fred Meyer shopping carts butted up against other people’s cars rather than push them a few feet to a cart drop-off area, and also of those who take their (and other’s) lives in hand to pass a couple of cars on a two-lane mountain road just so they can be #13 behind a slow-moving tractor trailer rather than #15.

But I need to practice what I’m preaching. Time to get really slow on the couch in front of our TV set.

November 15, 2006

Before our Tango era, Laurel and I briefly took some West Coast Swing classes. Almost invariably, the female instructor would start off by saying, “Men, this is your chance. In dance you get to lead the woman. Make the most of it. The rest of the week you’ll be back to following her.”

How true. Especially if you’re married. I speak from thirty-four years of experience.

In our egalitarian American culture, where overt sexism is becoming as déclassé as overt racism, sex roles are becoming increasingly blurred. This is mostly for the good.

But the current dance craze—witness the popularity of TV’s “Dancing With the Stars” and “So You Think You Can Dance,” plus a plethora of dance movies—points toward a desire for some old-fashioned Me Tarzan, You Jane relating between men and women.

In Tango, it’s Tarzan Lead, Jane Follow.

I readily admit that I’m a dance neophyte. Yet I’ve heard from credible sources that Tango is unique among the social dances for its high degree of spontaneity. Yes, there are basic moves, as in all dance forms.

In Tango, though, the man (ideally) interprets the music and leads his partner through a largely spontaneous flowing succession of movement combinations. Carlos, one of our instructors, has a mathematical bent. I forget his exact words, but they’re something like “There are more possible moves in Tango than atomic particles in the entire universe.”

And each has to be led. The woman basically is an empty receptive vessel. Jodi, Carlos’ partner and fellow instructor, once told me that when she was just beginning to learn Tango she danced with an accomplished man.

“I knew nothing,” she said. “Yet I could dance Tango because I didn’t have to do anything but relax and follow his lead. It was beautiful. I still remember how good that felt.”

What’s especially tantalizing to me about Tango, given its archetypal nature when it comes to sex roles, is how much it reveals about my personal male attitude toward leading. One evening Carlos and Jodi gave me some yin and yang instructional advice.

Carlos had been watching me dance with Laurel. He clearly didn’t like what he was seeing. Carlos interrupted us and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I’m going to lead you,” he said. “I want you to feel what it is like to be the woman.”

To my credit I didn’t shy away from those words, which, on one level, resembled my worst incarceration nightmare: “This is Bubba. He’s going to be your cell mate.”

I told Carlos, “Sure. Let’s give it a try.” It was difficult at first. Carlos kept stopping and telling me, “That’s not what I led. You’re not following correctly.” My basic problem was trying to anticipate where Carlos was heading next. That is, I was still trying to lead, even though I was the follower now.

After quite a few stops and starts my frustration led to a breakthrough of sorts. I relaxed into an empty Whatever, Carlos attitude. I became a dry leaf blowing wherever the wind took me. I stopped thinking and simply went wherever I was led.

Following lesson completed, Jodi then took me in hand—compared to Carlos, a decidedly more pleasant experience. She said, “Show me how you lead.” Then she closed her eyes, as experienced women Tango dancers often do, and let me do my thing.

“Your lead is soft,” was her feedback. “I have trouble telling what your intention is. Tango is a macho dance. Be more confident. Throw your shoulders back. Push your chest out. Make me move where you want me to go.”

It was the instructional yang of Carlos’ yin. Again, I felt frustrated. But this time I could express myself with energy rather than emptiness. I took charge of Jodi. I didn’t hesitate. I ran through my limited supply of Tango moves without looking back or forward. What felt right at the moment was what I did.

After a few minutes the music stopped. Jodi smiled and clapped her hands. “Yes! That was it!” I felt like the king of the world. Or at least, the king of the Judson Middle School gymnasium.

Such is the seductive appeal of Tango. For decades I played competitive tennis. For fifteen years I’ve seriously studied hard martial arts and softer Tai Chi. Yet Tango is the most challenging form of physicality I’ve ever attempted.

It stretches you where it hurts: in your most basic sense of who you are as a man or woman. Learning Tango is much tougher for a man. He does the leading, even when he barely knows any moves to lead. He has to be decisive yet not domineering, a difficult balance to strike.

The woman has her own challenges. While on the dance floor she has to dampen her desire to lead, even if she is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. She has to respond to the man, becoming an extension of his intention insofar as possible.

Yet, and this is the most interesting aspect of Tango, the man follows almost as much as he leads. And the woman leads almost as much as she follows. Here is where Me Tarzan, You Jane morphs into Tango Zen or Tango Taoism.

A leader becomes a follower becomes a leader becomes a follower…until the music ends. After I lead a move the woman takes over. I’m following her movement now, until it’s time to reclaim my role as leader.

As Johanna Siegmann writes in “The Tao of Tango":

Leading is male energy; so the male always begins because men have dominant male energy. Following is female energy, so women follow because they have dominant female energy.

Dominant does not mean total or entire. In the context of our natural balance of our energies, it means the major portion. In the context of Tango, it means that once the man leads and the woman follows, the woman must complete the step and the man must wait.

The energies are shifted. Doing the step: male energy. Waiting for the step to be complete: female energy. They shift back and forth…Tango helps us get balanced because it requires the highest level of communication without words. It also requires us to use both these energies, and so develops them.

Tango. Life. Love. Marriage. Relationship.

It’s all the same. It’s all about balance. It’s all about Tarzan and Jane. And Jane and Tarzan.

November 13, 2006

“Values” voters, take notice: the Democrats are displaying a lot more charity toward their vanquished foes than the Republicans exhibited during their days in power.

So if you value Christian compassion (or Buddhist, Jewish, whatever) and adherence to the Golden Rule—do to others what you would have them do to you—the Dems deserve your support.

Today the Salem Statesman Journal had a front page story about State Rep. Jeff Merkley of Portland. He’s slated to be the next speaker of the Oregon House of Representatives, blessedly replacing the Evil Queen, Karen Minnis.

When the Republicans had the majority in the House, Minnis ruled dictatorially. She bottled up legislation that she didn’t like, even if a bill would have passed if it’d been allowed to come up for a vote. She denied Democrats their fair proportional share of seats on important committees.

In short, she acted like a jerk. Along with the Evil Queen’s consort, then-majority leader Rep. Wayne Scott (he now is minority leader, proving that the tone deaf Republicans aren’t clearly hearing what voters sang at election time, “Clean up your act!”).

According to the Statesman Journal, Merkley is passing up the chance to do unto the Republicans what they did to the Democrats last session. Instead, he’s proposing to treat them the way they should have treated him and the other members of the minority party.

Jeff Merkley, the choice of the incoming Democratic majority to be House speaker, said he wants to consider House rules changes to ensure fairness to members and access by the public.

Ah, music to the ears: fairness, a virtue foresworn by Minnis and Scott. Merkley is planning to…

--assign members to committees according to their party’s share of the chamber
--guarantee that a bill will be debated if a majority of representatives want it
--guarantee a public hearing and a work session to a bill if it has two lead sponsors from each party
--return the selection of the chief clerk, who also is the House parliamentarian, to a vote of the entire House (under Queen Minnis, she appointed the clerk)
--have committees give 72-hour notice for public testimony on bills, up from 48-hours.

Part of me wishes that the House Republicans would have to suffer under the same absurd rules that the Democrats had to put up with last legislative session. But this revengeful side isn’t the best part of me.

Rep. Merkley, like his Congressional counterpart, Nancy Pelosi, is doing the right thing. He’s putting the broad interests of the public ahead of narrow political concerns. That’s what the voters said they wanted—an end to Republican corruption, cowtowing to special interests, never-ending political gamesmanship.

November 11, 2006

Right in Hollywood Video it was clear that “The Big Lebowski” must have some special message for me. I’d gone in looking for the movie yesterday, having heard that it was a cult favorite. Filled with profound meaning of some sort.

I headed for the Drama area. Found the “Bs.” Saw a Big this and a Big that. But there was an empty spot on the shelf where a Big Lebowski would fit alphabetically. I stared at the void for a few seconds.

Then heard an employee say, “Can I help you find something?” “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know if I’m in the right section, but I’m looking for The Big Lebowski.”

“Here you are.” He, I swear to God, was holding the DVD in his right hand. “I was just about to put it back. Somehow it got in the wrong place.”

Far out. Now I was convinced that this movie had something deep to say to me. Obviously we were meant for each other. A feeling confirmed when the hip young guy at the checkout counter approved of my selection: “Great flick. Good choice.”

Well, Laurel and I watched it last night. I’m still waiting for The Big Lebowski hit of enlightenment to strike. Maybe it will be a delayed reaction. Or I need to see it twice to grok a deeper meaning, like Todd Alcott did.

The first time I saw this movie, I didn't like it much. For a comedy it wasn't funny enough, for a mystery it wasn't satisfying. There was too much weirdness, not enough punch, couldn't figure out what any of it meant. The cowboy, the dream sequences, the dotty peripheral characters, it just didn't gel for me.

Nor for me. But one of those who commented on Alcott’s thoughtful review said that he’d seen it twice in theatres and six times on video. The third time through he realized what is going on.

Myself, I’m not sure what that is. However, I’m not about to disagree with Alcott’s final words (especially since he’s got an extra viewing on me).

This movie, for me, went from being pale and unpersuasive to standing as the Coen's densest, most intricate, most interesting and, in a way, most profound movie.

Okay. Could be. It’s definitely the most profound movie ever made about a dude named “Dude.” Over on YouTube you can watch The Dude’s Version of The Big Lebowski. In 2:12 it’s possible to absorb the dudeosity of this 90 minute movie. The strange thing is, it almost makes as much sense.

If you’ve got a bit more time (two seconds) and a broadband connection, check out the “Fuck” Edit of The Big Lewbowskie (sic). For 2:14 you will bathe in the aural warmth of the movie’s other favorite word.

I can already tell that this is a flick that grows on you. I didn’t find it all that enjoyable to watch, yet more scenes have stuck in my mind than is the case with most movies I see. For some reason I still hear Walter (John Goodman) telling his buddy Donny (Steve Buscemi), “Shut the fuck up, Donny.”

Probably because Walter said that a lot. Like he harkened back to his Vietnam days a lot. Walter lives a lot in the past. That helps explain why, no matter what he tries to do, he screws it up. Appealingly.

The “hero” (extremely loosely put) of the movie is The Dude, Jeff Bridges. Stoned, slackerly dressed, dark glassed, he lives in the moment. The Dude is more in touch with what’s going on than Walter, but that doesn’t help him cope with a parade of lower-case dudes who aim to bust up his apartment (and him).

I was rooting for the Nihilists to have better lines. But judging from this compilation of The Big Lebowski quotes, their command of the English language was pretty basic (of course, they had German accents). Sample:

I fucks you in the ass, I fucks you in the ass, I fucks you, I fucks you, I fucks you, I fucks...

This Nihilism had more content, though.

We believe in nothing, Lebowski. Nothing. And tomorrow we come back and we cut off your chonson.

My take on the meaning of the movie is just that: nothing. Nothing really matters, so nothing really can go wrong. My interpretation is along the lines of how a Spirituality & Practice review summed up The Dude’s outlook on life.

Once the Dude gets involved in a kidnapping case, his life swirls in chaos. But he is unperturbed by it all. Like a good Taoist, the Dude realizes that freedom is understanding we are not in control and never will be. By taking it easy, the Dude abides and becomes a spiritual teacher of crazy wisdom.

November 09, 2006

I love my Stihl backpack leaf blower. I also love Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. Can my loves co-exist? Would Thoreau, who wrote "If the soul attends for a moment its own infinity, then and there is silence," approve of pushing leaves around by means of a noisy engine?

Yes, I believe he would. There is beauty, profundity, and philosophical wisdom in the practice (dare I say “art”?) of leaf blowing, notwithstanding the snooty attitude of this blogger, who considers leaf blowers a din of ubiquity.

Cute. And often true. But our house sits on ten acres, not a small city lot. When I’m leaf blowing all the neighbors hear is a distant two-cycle whisper, not a nearby roar. So I’m able to pursue my art (yes! I will say it) guilt free.

My attention can be fully focused on what my leaf blower is teaching me about life. Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Once my Stihl is fired up, I’m not quiet. And I’m not desperate.

I’m following the adage, Carpe leafem: “Seize the leaf” (in my fractured Latin, at least). This morning when I told my wife that I planned to do some leaf work today, before the next storms hit, Laurel said, “But aren’t the leaves wet?”

Sure, they are. Yet tomorrow they’ll be even wetter. An Oregonian who waits for a perfect day to pick up November leaves—dry, warm, sunny—likely will be waiting until July. This afternoon it wasn’t raining and it was over fifty degrees. Carpe leafem!

A few weeks ago it was ideal leaf blowing weather. Too ideal, really, as I was blowing a lot of arid dirt and bark dust along with the leaves. Seeing the beauty of crisp dry leaves blowing in the Stihl-powered wind would have moved Thoreau to grab his notebook, however.

Really.

Have you seen the movie, “American Beauty”? If so, do you recall the scene where Ricky is watching camcorder footage of a plastic bag dancing in the wind? He says that it is the most beautiful thing he ever recorded. Leaves are even more beautiful than plastic bags when they dance.

I make them move using leafstinct—leaf instinct, for those unfamiliar with the subtle side of my art. I pursue my calling not on an elementary yard, a flat lawn surrounded by level garden beds, but on complex terrain filled with rocks, ground cover, walkways, slopes, evergreens, deciduous trees, a small pond, and terraced landscaping.

In short, it’s a mother to clear leaves from. Continuously I’ve got to make leafstinct decisions: Guide the pile this way around a bush, or that way? Head the leaf herd downhill, where they’ll move faster, or sideways, a more direct route to the collection area on the lawn?

Often I make mistakes. That’s life. Today quite a few leaves ended up stuck behind some clumps of heather instead of floating onto the grass because I went “down” rather than “sideways.” No big deal. I’ll just have to pick them out by hand eventually.

Perfection in leaf blowing isn’t possible. Not in our yard, at least. I’ve learned to be content with letting many of the leaves fall where they wish, as contrasted with where I intended them to end up. The air currents created by me and my Stihl have a chaotic quality to them.

Just like life. Long ago I learned from the Rolling Stones that you don’t always get what you want.

This afternoon my leaf blower taught me the same thing. I start off envisioning a pristine yard utterly devoid of leaves. After an hour or two I’m content with getting as many as possible either blasted directly into surrounding brush, or directed onto the lawn where I rake them up, put them in a large leaf bag, and scatter them on the paths that snake through our property.

In all of this I try to cultivate leaf blowing no-mind. There’s no need to think. Just do.

I used to ruminate about how unfair it was that the trees surrounding our house lost their leaves at so many different times. I’d slave away on getting one batch cleaned up while glancing up and noticing that the goddamn oaks were ferociously clinging onto their leaves, undoubtedly just to drive me crazy.

Now I don’t take it so personally. I still wish the trees would have an ecumenical conference and agree to lose their leaves simultaneously. It’d be a lot easier to get the pick-up chore completed on a single weekend, rather than stringing out the leaf work over a couple of months.

But leaves do what they have to do. I can’t control them. They fall on their own schedule, not mine. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

For over the sixteen years we’ve lived in our house those leaves have become good friends. I’ve learned a lot from them. We have our ups and downs—some cold and rainy years, before I discovered the benefits of leaf blowing, I’d do a lot of cursing along with my raking.

Now, though, we’ve settled into a mature relationship. I hope it continues for a long time.

Today I realized that the deciduous trees and shrubs keep getting bigger with every passing year. Meaning, more leaves. And I get older. Meaning, less capacity to deal with the ever-increasing leaves.

Eventually. But not now. I’ve still got plenty of strength and energy to handle the annual leafy deluge. Some day, I suppose, the ascending line of leaves and the descending line of Brian’s vitality will intersect on the graph of my life.

Then I’ll have to decide how to handle the situation. Maybe we could hire a cute illegal alien young thing who likes to pick up leaves for less than minimum wage and also give massages to older men.

Or, I can buy a more powerful leaf blower. I’ve got a feeling I know which option my wife will prefer. Unless she also can cook and do laundry. Then we might have a deal.

November 07, 2006

Yesterday my Tai Chi instructor, Warren, was talking about the importance of keeping your center. I’m looking forward to the Democrats doing just that tonight—getting this country centered again after too many years of right-ward tilting.

So far, it’s looking good. Eight House and three Senate seats picked up. If the trend continues, we’ll wake up to a much more balanced United States.

The Dems have learned from past leftist excesses. A lot more Democrats are running as moderates (or even semi-conservatives) this year. Nothing wrong with that. Bill Clinton understood the importance of holding onto the middle. That’s where the power resides.

In politics. And in Tai Chi. No matter what you do, or how you move, you’ve got to keep your center. Not always possible, especially in Tai Chi push hands where you’re matched with a partner who is testing your capacity to flexibly respond to force.

I’m often critical of the Democrats, who frustrate me when they skittle around like disorganized chickens rather than forming into a powerful wolf pack capable of taking back control from the neo-cons. But early returns from this election are showing hopeful signs that the Dems are running strong and howling again.

If they get a majority in either the House or Senate keeping their center is going to become more important, not less. When I hear fired-up progressives talk about impeachment proceedings against Bush, I cringe. That’s a sure way to make 2006 a one time Democratic victory march.

Bring Congress back to the middle. Okay, maybe a bit left of center. That’d be fine. But not a wholesale tilt leftward. Start some investigations into bungled Bush administration foreign and domestic policies. Hold Rumsfeld’s feet to the fire. Just don’t get carried away and forget what got you back into a semblance of power.

Centering. Staying balanced. Convincing voters that the Democrats have the steady hand needed to guide this country back on a moderate course.

November 05, 2006

Sorry, Dorothy. You’re going down. Back in 2004 you were the face of pro-Measure 37 ads, a sweet 92 year-old who, as I’ve noted before, supposedly just wanted the right to develop her land so she could give some property to her children and fund her retirement.

Oregonians now reject Measure 37, which trashed our state’s land use laws and created a privileged class of property owners. So it’s time for an anti-Measure 37 icon to pop up.

I nominate me. My qualifications recently were burnished by a quote of yours truly that appeared in a Salem Statesman-Journal story by Beth Casper, “Report: Support for Measure 37 dips.”

Brian said Measure 37 proponents touted the benefits of reducing government and allowing people to keep their land and their own money. But the result is exactly the opposite, he said.

"It runs in the face of reality," he said. "We are all interconnected. What my neighbor does affects us. What I do affects my neighbor."

Why, I sound almost Biblical. In addition to New Agey.

In a wide-ranging interview at our home, Laurel and I talked with Beth about quite a few subjects. First, we agreed in person to a previously negotiated reporter-interviewees truce concerning which of us had the most attractive dog.

When I emailed Beth directions to our house I threw in a mention that she’d soon be gazing upon the world’s most beautiful Lab-Shepherd mix, our Serena. Beth questioned my claim, replying with a photo of her own Lab. I responded that the dogs were in different categories, Lab-Shepherd mix and Labrador, so couldn’t we agree that they both were world champions?

Once that issue was behind us, Laurel and I made many wise observations that didn’t make it into the story. One that I particularly favor, so will quote myself here, concerns the absurd assumption that if government action reduces the value of someone’s property, then they are entitled to be compensated.

That’s ridiculous. Governmental bodies are making decisions all the time that increase or decrease the value of assets held by people. If the Federal Reserve raises interest rates, the price of bonds goes down. Bond traders don’t moan and cry, “Government, reimburse me for the money that I’ve lost because of you.”

Similarly, I told Beth that both Laurel and I owned limited partnerships in the 1980s (we weren’t married to each other then, but had the same financial planner). They were touted as good investments because of the federal tax code in effect at the time.

Well, they weren’t nearly as good an investment after Congress tinkered with the tax code. As I recall, Oregon’s Mark Hatfield (or Bob Packwood?) was one of the prime movers behind the closing of this tax loophole. Overnight, the monetary benefit we were enjoying from the partnerships fell. A lot, I remember.

Investments rise. Investments fall. That’s the nature of investing. Why should property investments be the exception to this rule? The 217-acre Measure 37 claim next to our neighborhood is a proposed 82 lot subdivision, not a single-family home site.

There’s no reason why the owner of this investment property should be given a special dispensation to harm the limited groundwater supply in our area just because zoning laws changed after he bought the land. Tax laws changed after we bought our partnerships. Nobody compensated us for lost value caused by government action. Why should Leroy Laack and his partners get a free pass?

Thankfully, Oregonians are recognizing that Measure 37 was, is, and always will be unfair. It was good to see that Washingtonians seem to be rejecting I-933, an initiative that would be as harmful to our neighbor to the north as Measure 37 has been to Oregon. (Also via Land Use Watch, you can check out a persuasive anti I-933 ad prepared by the Sightline Institute).

The tide seems to be turning against trashing land-use laws. I’m pleased to play my part in this effort. If that means being prominently featured in television advertisements where I turn the faucet in our kitchen sink and sand comes out, our well having been sucked dry because of excessive unregulated development by the nearby Measure 37 claim, then so be it.

I’m willing to be famous for this just cause.

(Note: our well hasn’t been affected yet since the subdivision is still in the planning phase. But Oregonians in Action didn’t let facts stand in their way when they made their deceptive pro-Measure 37 ads, so some karmic back-at-you seems justified).

Cool. I was on a date with a teenager. Or at least a gal who looked enough like a teenager, at dusk, after running through the rain, to warrant handing over her driver’s license.

I demanded that the girl look at mine too. Born in 1948. I passed by a mere forty years. Laurel is about the same vintage. But clearly much better preserved. I’m the first to admit that.

“Borat” the movie is a lot like our mini-Borat moment at the ticket booth (except funnier). It’s basically a series of vignettes featuring a make-believe journalist from Kazakhstan encountering real-life Americans.

You keep saying to yourself, “No, this can’t be happening!” Yet it is. And it’s almost always hilarious. Laurel isn’t a big laugh-out-loud movie goer. But I heard her giggling like, well, a teenager through Borat’s nude wrestling scene with his portly Kazakhstan traveling companion. That alone was worth the price of admission.

For several years we’ve been big fans of Sacha Baron Cohen, a.k.a. Borat, Ali G, Bruno and other comedic personas. Way back in July 2004 I was on the leading edge of the current Borat craze with my “Da Ali G, for real!” post.

As I said back then, not many people in this country must watch HBO’s Da Ali G show. For Cohen has no problem fooling his unwitting foils. I’ve read that Cohen’s assistants rush those who appear on camera through the signing of release forms.

Indeed, it’s hard to believe that some of the poor souls who embarrass themselves in “Borat” were willing cinematic collaborators. Some scenes obviously were staged while most others seemed spontaneous.

A climactic scene involving Pamela Anderson had Laurel and me wondering: staged or spontaneous? This blogger believes that Anderson was oblivious to Cohen’s true self. However, he follows up that conclusion with a report of a 2005 encounter between Anderson and Cohen during her dog’s wedding.

Wouldn’t Anderson have recognized Cohen at the book signing shown in “Borat” if she’d previously been tackled by him on a Malibu beach? Of course, maybe the book signing occurred before the dog wedding. I’m inclined to agree with this reviewer that Pamela was in on the joke.

Fact and fiction blur in the marvelously creative mind of Sacha Baron Cohen. Why else would the actual Kazakhstan ambassador to the United Kingdom be so offended by Borat’s humor?

Coming as it did on the heels of John Kerry’s ghastly “I vow I’ll never apologize for what I said unless I change my mind” (it took just a day) political gaffe, I realized how great it’d be if straightforward down-home people like those who work at DR Power Equipment were the only ones allowed to run for public office in this country.

Kerry sort of apologized for making a bad joke that sounded like he was criticizing the troops. That’s to his credit, because Bush has never apologized for getting those troops into a war under false pretenses.

Yet no matter how sincere politicians try to sound when they’re caught in a mistake, they can’t hold a candle to the guy I talked to back in Vermont this afternoon.

By the luck of the sales rep phone line draw, he turned out to be the same guy who recently sold me a replacement belt for my mower. In that first call we’d talked about how I used to own a three-blade lawnmower deck and now had a two-blade deck. Yet the belt that came in the mail wouldn’t fit my machine.

“Oh, yeah, I remember the conversation,” he said. “You told me which mower you had and then I blanked out and sent you the wrong belt. I’m a fool.”

“Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself,” I told him. “At least you didn’t embarrass yourself on national TV like John Kerry just did.” He laughed. And that got us talking about how Bernie Sanders’ opponent in the Vermont Senate race has been running nasty negative ads that have left him twenty points behind the popular Sanders (an Independent).

“No matter whether you agree with Bernie’s politics or not,” my new DR Power Equipment friend said, “people admire him for being a straight shooter. You always know where he stands.”

Yes, life is a lot simpler when people say what they mean and mean what they say. Kerry doesn’t do that. Neither does Bush. Few politicians do. That’s what makes politics so mean, nasty, and unenjoyable.

In contrast with my telephone call. I’d intended to order the correct belt and send back the other one for a refund. But the sales rep would have none of that. “Keep the belt I sent you. I’m giving you the belt you need at no additional cost. It was my mistake.”

We talked some more about politics. He hated how sleazy political campaigning has become—how minor personal peccadilloes are blown way out of proportion and become the focus of an election rather than substantive policy positions.

I agreed with him.

“I’d never be able to run for office,” I said. “Clinton was slammed for smoking pot that he says he didn’t even inhale. I’d have to reveal details of my late ‘60s lifestyle that would provide lots of fodder for negative ads. Yet maybe I could make my psychedelic experiences into a political plus: ‘I’ve taken LSD, but I’m still a heck of a lot more in touch with reality than my opponent.’”

Throughout, I felt like I was talking with a real human being who just happened to work for DR Power Equipment. Usually phone sales reps don’t come across that way. I liked how my DR guy threw in some mild swear words now and then when he got fired up describing some piece of political bullshit, merely mirroring my own language, I hasten to add.

Politicians, take notice. I realize that most consultants probably advise toning down your unvarnished self. But this voter likes blunt honesty in people he votes for, and I know that I’m not unique among the electorate.

When I ordered a new DR Field and Brush Mower earlier this year, there was a problem with communicating my delivery preferences to the freight company that was going to bring the machine down from Portland.

I phoned Vermont once and thought the problem was straightened out. Then the freight company called me and said they still hadn’t gotten what they needed from DR Power Equipment.

Calling back I talked to the woman I’d been working with. “Well, gosh darn it,” she said. “I told Joe yesterday to take care of this. I’m going to walk over to his desk and kick his butt.” Guess she did. Within a few minutes the freight guy phoned and told me that everything was in order now.

I just wish DR Power Equipment was in charge of the Defense Department. Somebody needs to march into Rumsfeld’s office and kick his butt over the Bush administration’s fatally flawed Iraq policy.